


Ennui

by Razikale



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Lesbian Character, F/F, Flirting, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razikale/pseuds/Razikale
Summary: Widowmaker is out for the evening on an unorthodox but wearisome task. She manages to run into the one person who can recognize her through any disguise. Perhaps the night will not be so tedious after all.





	1. Ennui

**Author's Note:**

> Overwatch is the property of Blizzard. No infringement intended.

Boredom.

Such an ugly English word. It had no style about it, no depth or context. Even the shape of it rolling around in her head had a base, vulgar laziness. It sounded like limp slabs of meat being dropped, or the rumblings of some behemoth creature too fat to roll over in its own filth.

A sip of pleasantly warming wine prevented her lips from curling in distaste at that mental image. Not quite a good enough year for this grape, but suitable for smoothing the jagged irritations of the task at hand. Or, more accurately, across the table.

Bore. _Boar_. They were very similar. Perhaps there was a connection? Did the most tedious Englishmen of old times resemble massive, furred pigs? Unlikely. That wouldn’t be enough of a distinction to set them apart from the entire rest of their kind. A frisson of humor quirked her eyebrow, just enough to make her content with such private amusement while her companion continued to inflate his own ego with hot air.

 _“Ay, chica, drifting again?”_ The accusing voice in her ear grated on her nerves. Particularly since she could only listen, not actually respond. This had to be one of Sombra’s ultimate fantasies: forcing people to pay attention to her nonsensical ravings without once being told to shuttup. _“Have to keep el pez grande hooked, otherwise we lose the bait.”_

Widowmaker’s fingers clenched ever so briefly around the crystal stem of her wine glass. First because spiders were never, _ever_ bait. Also because almost nothing the hacker had just said made any sense.

“Such a nuisance,” Widow sighed, delicately resting her chin on the back of a few fingers. The perfectly timed reply managed to coincide with her dinner date’s complaints about new taxation law.

Her lips quirked at one edge when she heard the irritated scoff in her ear, a faint click assuring her the channel was closed once more. Very well, she was sentenced to an evening in the kingdom of boars. With the whispers of a digitized madwoman and an inferior wine on the table.

Not even a weapon in sight. Not that there had to be, of course. _She_ was the weapon. Widowmaker had more victims than any other sniper in history and that didn’t begin to touch on the kills done without bullets. She could drop a man with her bare hands. (Her bare thighs as well, but for entirely different reasons).

Still, it was useful to have tools available. Such as the steak knife resting beside her almost entirely untouched chateaubriand. Or the napkin in her lap which could easily be used to strangle someone. The wine bottle too; with the right angle and force it could land a killing blow. Even lacking that skill, the blunt object would do a fair job of turning a skull into shrapnel if you were just patient enough.

Enjoying her new game, Widowmaker let her attention drift languidly around the room. The stiletto heels that blonde was wearing could gouge out an eye. The maitre’d was showing off a lovely corkscrew as he opened a bottle, the old-fashioned type that was nothing more than twisted sharp metal. With that she could puncture three vital organs and two arteries. Come to think of it, the bar would undoubtedly hold dozens of creatively repurposed items. She glided her eyes over the rich lacquered wood and its denizens in varying states of inebriation.

A brief flash of orange made Widow’s breath catch in surprise before it vanished. Impossible.  There was no reason for her to be here. Certainly no reason for the sniper’s deathly-still heartbeat to give that tiny lurch of excitement.  The same sensation that made her trigger finger twitch in delighted anticipation. London was a very large city and this restaurant? She surveyed the tastelessly luxuriant décor with a mental sneer. Velvet and crystal, mahogany and leather and mirrors all clashing with each other in some neo-antique style that was a child’s idea of fancy. No, this place was not the sort for _sa petite amie._ That one had no pretensions at all.

Having thus reassured herself completely, Widowmaker turned her attention back to her objective for the evening. He was talking about his car collection. Trying to, rather; the piece of steak in his mouth was making it a bit difficult. In fact, there was a dribble of red juice about to escape down his chin. Before genuine revulsion shattered her seductive mask, Widow looked straight over his shoulder. At other tables, out the windows, the rest of the dining room, anywhere. Anything was better than watching the sensual act of food turned into such a travesty.  _Vraiment._ Watch a man (or woman) approach a plate and you see the lover they will become.

Another fleeting glimpse of that orange color and this time Widowmaker knew she wasn’t imagining it. That telltale shade had no place amidst the milling press of little black dresses and expensive suits but she could see it. One undone sleeve cuff reaching across the bar through a jumble of arms. A loose edge hanging over fitted black pants that vanished before Widow could fully appreciate the shape. The garishly bright color accentuated pale skin, collar open to expose the long line of a perfect neck, throat forming an elegant arc of uninhibited laughter.

Deadly fingers balled the napkin in her lap without ever letting a single twitch change the nuance of her face. Widowmaker glared at the crowd around the bar, imagining a perfectly placed kill shot in each and every one. The left temple of a braying man whose laugh and teeth were more suited to wearing a saddle than a dinner jacket. Between the eyes of another whose painstakingly groomed 3-day beard must’ve taken months to perfect. Base of the skull on _une salope_ with her sugared martini and hand brazenly stroking an orange sleeve.

Like a bullet hitting its mark, the sniper’s gaze found her target. Mocha eyes met hers in passing, an innocence already trailing away before snapping back in an instant and widening, registering the same jolt of shock that had struck Widow from across the room. Tracer’s pouting mouth was so precious in that moment; parted on a mute sound of surprise. Perhaps that hint of a breathless curse whenever bullets forced her back in time? Or the squeak that broke free when their fights landed her pinned on a chafing rooftop? Or maybe—just maybe—

“Are you alright?” The billionaire-politician-CEO-inventor or whatever he was had managed to stop his litany of narcissism long enough to notice Widow’s distraction. Which meant she must have slipped.

 _“Aranita, you gone DoS on me? Or we got a bug?”_ Sombra’s voice exploded back into life, loud and frenetic over the background noise of tacking keys and candy wrappers.

“Yes,” Widowmaker immediately answered, offering her most reassuring smile. “I thought I saw an insect. That’s all.”

 _“Copy that, chica. Uno creepy-crawly poking around. I’ll scope.”_ Passing subtle messages was certainly easier with someone who spoke fluent gibberish.

“Like a cockroach?” Rather than looking horrified, her date’s face had become enlivened by the idea. “That sort of scandal could ruin a place like this. Where did you see it?”

That feeling of revulsion was climbing in her throat again. The glint in his eyes might as well have been a cartoonish set of money bags.

“No _, pas un cafard_. Too brightly colored and quick.” Widowmaker only kept the sneer from her lips by focusing on Tracer. The Overwatch agent had rapidly untangled from the hands and queries of friends to face her unobstructed. Across the dining room, past a dozen or more tables and all the habitants carrying on with their weekend revelries oblivious to the tension winding ever tighter from either side.

“Shame. They’d have written off our entire supper on the suggestion alone.” La Merde—as Widow had come to think of her target for the evening—gave a dejected sigh and sat back. She hardly noticed; too intent on watching Tracer begin an all too confident approach.

_“Mierda, chica. I didn’t see her until now. None of the rest of her circus in town. ¿Está sola, quizas?”_

“Most likely,” Widow agreed, one brow twitching up as she got a steadily better view of her frequent nemesis. No one as hyper as the British time jumper could ever manage a swagger, but there was a certain beguiling ease in her movements tonight. None of the frenetic energy that so often defined her style.

Twenty meters and she could see that Tracer’s bright orange was a button down shirt for a change, rakishly rumpled and strategically undone.

When had they last seen each other? Three weeks? No, twenty-six days. That scuffle atop the ministry building in Mumbai. Talon and Overwatch both keeping tabs on Vishkar so that their little ménage a trois balance could keep going round in circles. Pity it was so humid in India. Sweat made it such a challenge to get a good grip.

Ten meters. The neckline of Tracer’s shirt was open in a plummeting V, just deep enough to be a scandalous invitation. Was she wearing necklaces? Widow had never seen the Overwatch agent accessorized. The strands of metal and leather managed to lure eyes away from the obvious, bringing her gaze up to the equally tantalizing length of an unmarked throat. That pale skin was such a delightful canvas for darker colors.

“As I was saying, the new tech is experimental at best but very promising. They turned down a merger, like the dumb kids they are and we took a no-prisoners approach in the hostile takeover. Little shits never blah blah—,” La Merde’s voice faded from her awareness. It hardly mattered, seeing as he seemed enthralled with himself more than she could ever pretend to be.

Five meters and Widowmaker realized that the British woman had product in her hair. Some sort of spray or gel or nuclear fallout chemical capable of partially subduing the wild spikes that were so evocative of her nature. The sniper took a sip of her wine without letting her eyes stray from the approaching threat, nonchalance a perfect armor to hide the thrill that sparked in her blood at the sight of Tracer’s lips curling into a smirk.

At two meters Widow could see that the satchel slung across the other woman’s hip wasn’t merely a fashion statement. Just below the folded flap she spied a telltale blue glow. But of course, _la petite abeille_ would never step outside without her most essential accessory. Even on a night off. Widowmaker found her attention drifting appreciatively over the unencumbered expanse of Tracer’s torso. A rare adventure, discovering new territory like this. That _hideux_ contraption had made quite a secret of the lithe pilot’s assets

“Amélie, love! I thought that was you.” Tracer’s chipper tone was nearly as bright as the color of her trademark clothing. Where she’d found a shirt in that shade was almost as mysterious as how she managed to make it look so attractive. Widow’s fingers twitched again, not thinking of rifles at all.

“Cherié, _bon soir_. An unexpected coincidence, no?” Widowmaker let the slightest movement of one brow warn the Overwatch agent to stay in line. There was a restaurant full of innocents and a target yet to achieve.

“Serendipplit-serenet-stupenditous—oh, bugger me,” Tracer groaned and rubbed the back of her neck in a familiar gesture of chagrin. Whatever she’d been imbibing at the bar had clearly gotten ahead of her tongue. Still, it was almost charming the way she grinned and soldiered on regardless. “Bloody lucky, that’s what it is.”

“A friend of yours?” La Merde had started to turn but barely moved before the brunette swept past him and dropped into the plush booth. Right beside her. She was close enough that Widow could feel the furnace of her skin despite any fabric between them.

“Friend,” the word rolled on Widowmaker’s tongue as she tested the feel. The crinkling laughter lines beside Tracer’s eyes betrayed the giggle she was barely keeping restrained. Just like a child, let her have a secret and the world devolves into games. Traitorous threads of amusement and near camaraderie threatened to seep into Widow’s cool façade and she shook her head. “No, not friends.” She turned away, ignoring the stricken-puppy expression and continued, “Acquaintances, perhaps. We meet professionally from time to time.”

“Workmates, that’s us,” Tracer seconded with an enthusiasm that, from anyone else, should’ve been sarcastic. Just as the arm that slung across the back of the bench would’ve been overly flirtatious, were it not married to such a guileless manner.

“Ah, another dancer. I’ve not had the pleasure of seeing Amélie perform myself so I can’t pretend to recognize you on sight.” Such a tactful, polite response. Utterly ruined by the way La Merde’s eyes all but clawed over the newcomer. Widow could swear she heard drool in his mouth when he dragged his gaze back into proper territory once more. “But I’m sure I will remember you from now on. Miss?”

“Lena.” Tracer volunteered easily, her sideways glance to Widowmaker positively screaming disbelief.

 _A dancer? Really?_ The pilot was trying desperately not to fall to pieces.

“Sadly, this mademoiselle does not grace the stage. She is more, what would you say, cherié? A practice partner?” Widow refused to back away from Tracer’s bemused scrutiny, willing to match her step for step.

 _Really._ After all, Amélie Lacroix was still a reputable name in many Parisian ballet circles. Theatre types could hardly be bothered to keep track of murderous plots and terrorist intrigue.

“Yeah, ‘spose that sounds about right.” Tracer agreed after mulling the idea around, that flare of mischief lighting up her face once more. “Never seen anybody move like this one. Don’t know if I’d call what we do ‘dancing’ _per se_.”

The coquettish Brit had such a natural gift for sounding innocent and oblivious. Only Widowmaker could recognize the smug quirk at the edge of her mouth that announced just how insufferably pleased she was with herself for having used a French term. Deliberately mangling it, too. ‘Pear see,’ indeed.

 _Petite coquine. Determined to make things difficult, as usual._ Widow mentally rolled her eyes, wondering why she’d ever imagined the girl would do anything less. _Trés bien_ , two could play these games.

“But, of course it is a dance,” the dulcet reply purred off her lips, leaning imperceptibly closer. “There is rhythm and timing. I lead and you follow. Together and apart; neither for too long. I can read your mind in the way you move, anticipate the next step. A good dance should keep you on your toes, no?”

“Yes, well,” the confidence in Tracer’s voice cracked for a moment, eyes nervously flicking down to steal a glimpse of Widow’s mouth. _That’s it, into the web._ “I do work up quite the sweat with you, that’s for sure.”

 “It is excellent exercise for us both.” Widowmaker could see her opponent’s heartbeat pulsing radically in the vein of her throat. Skipping ahead like a frightened hare. Yet the skittish creature before her showed no sign of wanting to flee. It was one of the first surprises she’d found in this clichéd posterchild; Tracer was never afraid of her. The foolish girl ran _towards_ her when everyone else ran away.

“I would love to see that sometime.” Like the magic words that turned a prince back into a toad, La Merde managed to completely ruin the moment. Widowmaker’s fingers were already creeping towards the steak knife before she processed what he’d said.

“Like to watch, do you?” As usual, Tracer was just a bit quicker. Both in catching his meaning and also covering Widow’s hand before she could grab the weapon.

“Who wouldn’t?” The answer itself wouldn’t have made her skin crawl if not for the way his cheeks spread into such a grin, one lip sucked between his teeth like a child caught trying to get into presents before Christmas.  That wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t even naughty. It shot straight past the world of sensual innuendo and into dungeons with chained women getting molested.

If Widowmaker wasn’t still thinking about the pretty splash his arterial spray would paint across the table cloth, she might have noticed that Tracer’s hand—the one still around her shoulders—gave an instinctive flick as if she could summon one of her pistols from thin air. And she wasn’t even the one who’d had to pretend to enjoy this evening for the last eighty-seven minutes.

“Right, well Amé here knows I’m a bit shy with performances and the like. How about you give us a minute to pop off and talk it over?” Tracer was already on her feet, tugging Widowmaker’s hand to drag her from the booth and ignoring both her startled protest and La Merde’s confusion.

*********      *********      *********      *********

Only when they’d reached the Ladies’ Room did Tracer dare let go of Widow’s hand. She’d fought (with and against) the Talon assassin long enough to know exactly when that beguiling glint of danger in her eyes had crossed into actual murder. Releasing her hold, Tracer paced over to the sinks. Not because she needed to wash her hands or splash her face or in any of half a dozen other ways waste time pretending there was a reason. She just knew that Widowmaker needed a bit of space for a minute or two.

This was not what she’d envisioned when her old RAF buddies insisted on dragging her out for the night. She very nearly hadn’t come at all. Sure, Pinky was a good mate and she was happy for him finally popping the question. She was even more gobsmacked to hear the girl had said yes. But she could only handle so many hours of getting razzed about being the Overwatch mascot. Never mind the endless questions about D.Va’s knickers and whether or not she could blink in and out of changing rooms. Good lads, all of them, but damned if they could ever understand that chronal disassociation was _not_ the same as being able to turn invisible. Besides, she could go in and out of the girls’ locker as much as she wanted. They tended to forget that part.

Running a hand through her hair—and instantly regretting it because she forgot she’d put product in tonight—Tracer leaned against the sink counter and waited. Widowmaker hadn’t moved from her position near the door, both of them uncharacteristically silent as they waited for the one occupied stall to finish her business. Poor little thing came out and nearly melted in the silent crossfire. She splashed water on part of her dress but still raced out without attempting to dry anything. Much to the consternation of the lavatory attendant.

That was how you knew it was a posh WC. Even if the attendant was an Omnic, it was still someone whose entire job was standing around in the loo. Tracer couldn’t begin to wrap her mind around the thought. Spending hours outside toilets? Watching an endless pageant of women parading around the mirrors to do their lips, fluff their hair, adjust garters and cleavage and . . .Oh. Tracer might’ve just figured out the appeal. Wonder if the Omnics have all the spots already?

Widowmaker murmured something to the attendant now, handing off a credit chip without once taking her eyes off Tracer. The Omnic immediately left, either to guard the door or take an extra-long break and now it was just the two of them. Just like it always was. Mind, even for a toilet this was a lot nicer than most of the places they ran into each other.

“Quite the winner your date is.” Tracer rested her hands on the counter behind her, noting the flutter of Widow’s thick lashes. A barely contained eye roll. It wasn’t going to be hard getting under her skin tonight. She was already itching. They both were. Tracer tried to contain the glee in her voice as she prodded further, “Definitely raised on the bad kind of porn vids, that one. Where’d you find him, love?”

“I didn’t.” Widowmaker’s lip curled. She took two steps across the small room, not quite entering Tracer’s personal space but skirting the very edge. “Sombra did.”

“Oh, that make’s sense then. Perfect match those two. Pervy and,” before Tracer could finish there was a finger on her lips, the cold touch sucking any words out along with her breath.

“She can hear you.” The warning had a melodic tone, amusement glimmering beneath danger.

 _“Damn right, I can._ _¿Qué estás haciendo, amiga? Our fish is going to get away!”_ The hacker’s impatient tone threatened to chew through the wireless connection and sink teeth directly into her ear. Widow winced.

“Sombra,” the usually seductive French tone took on an edge of command, the sort that made Tracer feel a bit like jelly around the knees. Not that she’d ever admit it. The sniper’s eyes traveled the room, settling on a carefully concealed glowing dot in the far corner that identified an active security feed.  Widow didn’t even blink, addressing it directly, “Keep your eyes and ears on the target. My accomplice and I are developing a new strategy.”

 _“’New strategy,’ is that what your people call it these days? Because I still call it jodie—,”_ the rest of that language lesson was abruptly terminated when Widowmaker plucked the com from her ear. The light on the surveillance camera also went dead.

Widow would never sever contact if it was an official assignment. Not a Talon mission then.

“I’ll be honest, love, that’s a real relief.” Tracer let out a loud huff, shaking her head. She idly took a few paces to one side, noting how perfectly Widowmaker matched the movement, circling from the other direction.

“That Sombra and I are working a target?” A dark eyebrow arched upward, turning one question into another.

“That you didn’t get all fancied up like this just for that tosser outside.” Tracer switched directions, delighted in how easily Widow adjusted. They did move seamlessly together, so in tune that it felt like they were reading each other’s mind. It was a bit like dancing. How had she never noticed?

“You’d prefer a different reason? Or a different person, perhaps?” Every step kept the same distance, both waiting for the other to break form first. Widowmaker’s fingers strummed innocently at thin air, playing with invisible threads of thought. “Or would you prefer I not look like this at all?”

“You look amazing.” Tracer stopped dead in her tracks, the sincerity of her words so intense that it embarrassed both of them. It was nearly enough to forfeit the game completely but she rallied once more, reaching for that unfailing self-assurance that buoyed her through all of life. “’Course it’s not perfect.”

“No?” A lesser woman would have been offended. Widow simply rested her elbow in one hand, waiting for the inevitable punchline.

“The color’s wrong.” Tracer made no secret of cataloging the other woman from head to toe, in the end fixing on the smoldering ember gaze waiting for her. Everything else could be different but those eyes would always be the same. That had been all she’d recognized from across the room. Two steps closed the space between them and expensive perfume rolled over her tongue when she pressed in enough to breathe across Widowmaker’s lips, “I’ll always prefer you in blue.”

“So charming tonight, cherié,” a soft purr of laughter brushed aside the compliment like any other. Only someone who knew what to watch for would’ve seen the flicker of emotion. Brief as the stutter of a single lightbulb on a marquis but once you knew where to look and when to be watching, it was impossible not to notice. The first time Tracer saw it was like finding a lost treasure all for herself.

“I’m always charming.” She managed to pretend she was stung, pouting for good measure since tonight they were playing dirty.

“No, _ma petite_ , you are cute. _Précieux,_ ” Widowmaker corrected. That teasing tone always hit just the right blend of seductive blasé to make Tracer’s entire body tense. Like the pull of a trigger it provoked the need to drag this woman to the ground, to hear her scream.

“Precious,” Tracer repeated, mocking. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought you must be saying to yourself when I came walking over and you couldn’t keep your eyes off me.” She leaned in close again, resting her arms on the tile wall behind them but keeping any part of their bodies from touching. “Didn’t you know, Amé?” The curl of her smirk wasn’t lost, not when she knew Widowmaker could feel it at the edge of her ear. “You licked your lips, love.”

“ _Merde._ ”

Just like that—with a single breath of delicate profanity—the game ended. Tracer couldn’t even glory in the moment of victory before cool fingers threaded into her hair and dragged her into a kiss. Oh bloody hell, it had been way too long. Three weeks, three months, three minutes; it was all the same torture when she never knew if they’d find each other again. Tracer fell under the soft spell of Widow’s mouth far too easily, greedy for the way they laid siege and surrendered to each other.

Silken fabric slid beneath Tracer’s fingers as she skimmed down the side of Widowmaker’s dress. She found the low hem, humming in delight at the sensation of skin beneath her palm as she stroked back up, bunching the material out of her way. It was awkward; maneuvering around the satchel holding her accelerator, but nothing compared to the usual holsters and harnesses they had to navigate. A willowy leg hooked around her waist, drawing her into the paradox of a chilly body that only ignited heat.

The way they moved together, falling into each other so effortlessly. Tracer had never known anything like it. She didn’t even _want_ to know anyone else like this. This was only with Widow and every time was the last but they were all perfect. _Fuck_ , touching this woman was like taking off in the slipstream jet all over again. She’d never come back the same but she’d still do it, every time.

Ice fanned across her cheek, fingers subtly shifting the angle to let Widow’s tongue slip past her lips, licking into Tracer’s mouth with teasing curls and twists that left no question of what she wanted. One fumbling, sweaty palm slapped flat against the wall, like a wrestler trying to tap out before she completely broke apart.  

“Amé.” Tracer barely pulled back long enough for the stutter of her name before being captured again.

A roll of the former dancer’s hips made the breath choke in her throat and she could taste the edge of a plea on her tongue. Shivers down her back followed the trail of fingers, punctuated with a sharp gasp at the sudden squeeze of one toned cheek. Widowmaker really did have a thing for her ass. Tracer couldn’t help a startled laugh interrupting their kiss. She’d always thought it was just the suit. The possessive grip tightened and it was all she could do not to buck forward, aching for some relief to the heat and pressure building between her legs.

“You were right,” Widow murmured, planting kisses down her jaw. The play of soft lips and sharp teeth sent little bolts of electricity racing over her skin. “I did not think _précieux_ or _mignonne_ when I saw you tonight.” The tiny victory just didn’t seem to matter when that mouth had found the frantic pulse point on Tracer’s neck. “I did not even think _charmante._ ”

“Wh-ah—!” Tracer bit her tongue, holding back what surely would’ve been a whimper at the sensation of Widow’s lips deliberately bruising tender flesh. Only when she trusted her voice not to turn traitorous did she dare try again. “What did you think?”

Widowmaker leaned back, resting her head against the wall and waiting for Tracer’s eyes to find hers again. The coy shape of her smile hinted at wickedness untold, echoing the depths of a gaze redolent of ripped clothing and claw-marked skin. Widow’s voice was too sultry and feminine to ever be a growl. But when Tracer felt two strong hands palming her backside to rock her forward, there was an unmistakable rumble beneath the dulcet purr in her ear:

“Mine, cherié.”

“Well,” Tracer’s breath fled her in a violent burst, “That’s these knickers completely ruined.”

“ _Oui_? Shall I find out for you?”  Widowmaker’s delight rose in the corner of her mouth. One hand was already creeping up beneath the loose fabric of Tracer’s shirt, tickling the skin at the small of her spine.

“Now, now.” The tsks falling from Tracer’s mouth were a little too shaky, but her fingers were steady when she caught hold of Widow’s and peeled them away. In a real fight it would take all her skill to pin Widow’s hands to the wall like this. Some nights it still did. Apparently the assassin was feeling generous this evening. Tracer pressed both hands to the tile, one overhead and the other straight down, maximizing the contact for cool skin to leech her heat.

During those first times together she had still held Widowmaker’s wrists. She’d left deep bruises on blue skin from hanging on as tight as she could, instincts screaming that she was about to lose her grip on _something._ These days she simply interwove their fingers, marveling that she was allowed such an innocent intimacy.

She savored it for an extra, stolen moment before resigning herself to what had to be done. Time to ruin the mood . . .

 “Let’s not forget about Mister Twit in the other room.” Fortunately, she was expecting the sudden tension that flooded Widowmaker’s body. She was still nearly thrown off, but kept her footing and refused to let go.

“Ugh, there you go being English again.” There was a very particular annoyed sound that scoffed from Widow’s throat whenever she made that accusation. It twisted ‘English’ into the sort of profanity that would raise a blush on Torbjorn himself. It never failed to make Tracer smile.

“The sooner you tell me Sombra’s plans, the sooner we can make our own,” she coaxed, tilting up just enough to brush her nose against Widow’s. In her battle gear the Frenchwoman had better than four inches on Tracer. Why did a sniper need high heels on her boots, anyhow? Had to be a fashion thing. The heels she wore now weren’t half as dramatic and brought her within far more reasonable reach.

“ _C’est une faveur._ Sombra wants to get rid of some competition and needs him distracted while she works.” There was that Gaelic scorn again, annoyance shaping innocent words into insults.

“A favor?” Tracer’s forehead screwed up in confusion, leaning back to double-check she was still talking to the same woman. “Since when do you two do each other favors?”

“Since she erased the footage of our last little tête a tête.” There was an entire litany of accusations in the deliberate arch of Widow’s one eyebrow.

“Shite,” the Brit groaned, head falling back as she remembered exactly what Sombra would’ve seen. There’d been an awful lot of windows in that building.

Tracer was never one to dwell on the past. At least, not unless she was alone and feeling a bit wound up and needed a few memorable moments to finish the job. That particular afternoon had played over in her head a number of times during this latest dry spell. No regrets there.

“Guess I’m in for the pound now too.” Fresh conviction straightened the pilot’s spine, squaring her shoulders and pulling away from Widowmaker. The look of surprise in her eyes was already worth anything else that happened tonight. “Kind of my fault you’re stuck in this,” she elaborated, striking the same cocky pose that used to smile down from every Overwatch poster and billboard. “Can’t just leave you footing the bill, now can I? Sombra needs a distraction and Twatsworth likes to watch. I’d say we got this covered.”

“Part of your usual heroism, I suppose.” Widowmaker rolled her eyes and stepped past the Brit, tone already beginning to drip with the disdain that could mask any other emotion.

“Nope.” Tracer—even without her accelerator—darted forward faster than the assassin could react. In an instant there were two arms wrapped tight around her waist, tugging her backwards to feel hot breath tickle her neck. “Part of me not letting you out of my sight for the rest of the night, love.”

“I see. And what is the rest?” Widowmaker unconsciously tilted her head to one side, allowing for a longer caress of lips against her skin. They vanished without warning, Tracer’s arms gone and the pilot suddenly standing at the door with a finger on the handle and a wide grin plastered across her face. Being with her was positively dizzying.

“Guess you’ll just have to tag along to find out, won’t you?” Tracer ducked out the door. Then thought better of it and popped her head back in for a second, a serious thought marring her brow. “But that wanker isn’t touching either of us.”

“Agreed.” The pleased smile that turned up the corners of Widowmaker’s mouth very nearly covered the lethal glint in her eyes.

*********      *********      *********      *********

To absolutely no one’s surprise (but a touch of disappointment) Widowmaker’s date was still waiting at the table when the two women returned. A quick glance to her watch revealed their little _conference_ had only taken fifteen minutes. A pity. Five more minutes and she could almost certainly have convinced Tracer to let her kill the man and slip away together. She would have to be content with half a wish.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” To the rest of the world it looked like Widowmaker was fiddling with the delicate jewelry dangling from one ear. Only the com snapping to life told the truth, Sombra reactivating the channel with a long string of muttered Spanish.

“Not a problem,” La Merde waved off the apology. “I finished a business proposal while you were primping.”

“Oh, that’s good. Very,” Tracer looked helplessly to Widow for some idea of a word, “Efficient?”

“I also ordered some dessert.” He gestured to three plates of chocolate gateau. One was already nothing but crumbs. That must’ve been quite the sight, him devouring all that gooey sugar and no doubt _still_ trying to talk with a mouth full of melting fondant.

“No.” Widowmaker recoiled from the idea without even realizing she’d spoken out loud. She’d instinctively started to take a step back, muscles tensing for a fight. Hands on her shoulders flooded her with heat, melting the defense. Tracer’s eyes darted her a quick warning but didn’t push.

“What Amélie means is that she’s not big on sweets. Usually prefers a different sort of indulgence after supper, if you catch my drift.” Explanation, apology and innuendo all in one breath. Not even a hint of twitch around Tracer’s eyes or smile. _Bravo, petite._

“Of course, have to keep that dancer’s figure, don’t you?” La Merde raked greedy eyes over her body without permission or subtlety. It felt like being pawed at. Mercifully, he managed to recall basic manners just in time to turn his attention back to Tracer. “And you, Lena? Any dessert?”

For a moment Widowmaker saw a diabolical idea flashing through the other woman’s smile; a mischievous desire to do something horrid, just to see her reaction. A single, appalling vision rose in her mind of Tracer grabbing the entire piece of cake and smearing it across her face; that smug grin painted in shades of chocolate and anglaise. Widowmaker held her breath when pale fingers reached towards the plate. She could nearly feel sticky hands trying to pull at her, ruining her dress, her hair, filling her mouth with a sickeningly sweet taste tempered by the salt of skin and . . .

“I’ll have mine later.” Lena shrugged, grabbing a single red berry off the elegant plate. She popped it in her mouth, finger and thumb lingering between her lips for a beat longer than necessary. Widowmaker cursed herself; she never should have shared her theory about lovers and food with this wicked girl. Tracer’s gaze held her until she bit down, eyes fluttering shut with a deliberate hum of pleasure at the taste.

“Then I’ll just, I’ll-.” La Merde fumbled as he tried to get up from the table too quickly and knocked over a water glass. “I’ll have the car brought around.”

He strutted off with as much speed and dignity as possible given the difficult situation below his belt. Tracer slit one eye open, watching him leave before snickering to herself.

“This is going to be fun.” That unabashed grin was so gleeful, childish like the way she was bouncing on the balls of her feet and ready to play.

“No, this is business,” Widowmaker scolded, clinging to her irritation as a last means of keeping discipline. It was too early yet to give up control, to give into the addictive freedoms of losing herself completely with this impetuous woman. Tracer refused to be discouraged, willingly surrendering to the cold grip that took her arm and hauled her out of the restaurant. Widow cast a glance back at her, drinking in the excitement of those wide eyes following her every move.

“The fun will be later,” she amended with a flash of teeth in her smile, reveling in the way Tracer stumbled at the promise.

The hover limo had just pulled up outside and Widowmaker slid in, pulling Tracer along with her. She couldn’t even pretend to be startled when the hero climbed directly into her lap, straddling her hips with an air of total authority. The effect was only slightly ruined by a petulant curse when she thumped her head against the ceiling.

Tracer twisted to look over her shoulder, making sure their audience was in place. Widow didn’t have to see her face to know the smug little thing had tossed him a wink. Fingers in her hair gave a sharp tug and the Frenchwoman arched upward, right into waiting lips that still tasted of berry.

 _“_ _¡Nada mal! Whatever you’re doing, chica, don’t stop. His firewall is crispy!”_ The accented cackle in Widowmaker’s ear made the waning annoyance surge back up in her chest. Her nails sank deep into the fabric of Tracer’s pants, dragging her closer to block out the distraction. The sweet, breathy sound that keened against her tongue was obliterated by a louder grunt from across the car.

Widow’s eyes snapped open, glaring over an orange-clad shoulder at La Merde. Touching himself already. No discipline, no patience. _Sauvage._ The woman in her lap had a hundred times the stamina and strength he did. Tracer could endure hours of torture; kiss-bruised lips pinned between her pretty teeth and her whole body writhing but not once surrendering to such selfishness.

A thumb on her cheek pulled Widowmaker’s attention back. Tracer’s gaze, darkened as it was, still sparkled with silent, knowing laughter. Pinpoints of brightness danced at her, twinkling with amusement and secrets. Even with product in her hair it was soft enough to tickle Widow’s cheek when she tilted in to reach her ear.

“Working, is it?” The whisper was insufferably playful and Widowmaker’s hands clenched, eager to make that mischievous voice break apart. Then she realized Tracer wasn’t talking to her.

 _“Heh, not so estupida after all._ ” Sombra’s answer chuckled back for only Widow to hear. _“Si, it’s working. A few more minutes like that and I could turn his upgrades into a cat-vid server.”_

“Close.” Widowmaker opted to summarize the hacker’s reply. It was easier to focus on one word than try to make sense of the rest.

“Damn right, I am.” Tracer rolled her hips for emphasis and a throaty laugh slipped past Widow’s lips. The younger woman’s entire face lit up at that sound, positively beaming in triumph before diving back into their embrace with renewed urgency.  

Widowmaker was content to let her head tilt back, resting against the seat while a warm mouth etched designs down her neck. If she closed her eyes it was just them. There was only the familiar scent of her soap and traces of that chemical that had tried to tame her hair and felt tacky in Widow’s fingers as she combed through stiff strands. The rumble of the hover engines fell away, a dull background to the metallic clink of necklaces jangling together each time Tracer shifted to lavish attention on a different part of her skin. She slid down Widowmaker’s body, heat leaving fading trails of warmth that would’ve looked like the most beautifully receding waves through her thermal scope.

There was no noise when the smaller woman gracefully slipped to her knees on the floor. The tension of held breath and her own heartbeat (deathly slow but so very alive) erased all sound, waiting.  A kiss seared the top of her thigh, shattering the stillness. She sucked air in sharp, denying Tracer the satisfaction of a moan but it didn’t matter; she felt the pilot’s smile trailing inch by inch higher as the fabric of her dress was pushed out of the way.

Tracer was never so crass as to grab Widow’s knees like some vise to be wrenched open. Fingernails tickled lightly up the back of her legs, soft touches little more than a hypnotic suggestion. The progression of caresses was a methodical assault, breath and lips and hands making it inevitable that when she crouched Widowmaker lifted one knee, hooking it over her shoulder and letting herself be drawn forward. Sharpness scraped against her inner thigh, Tracer lifting her just enough to push her dress completely out of the way before finally their sighs mingled in the awe and relief of a fiery mouth descending on sodden lace.

“ _Mon dieu,_ cherié.” Widow arched off the seat, one hand raking the leather with the other still tangled in Tracer’s hair.

She’d known she was damp; not just from their stolen time in the bathroom but from the instant she’d locked eyes with the British agent at the bar. But she hadn’t thought she was already this wet, the skimpy fabric of her lingerie soaked through to the point she could feel Tracer’s tongue exploring every contour and nuance of the flesh beneath. Long, flat drags pressed the lace deeper between swollen folds, teasing as far as her tongue could reach into Widow’s entrance with the shred of material still blocking her way. Widowmaker tightened her fingers, fighting the urge to reach down and tear the frustrating garment out of the way. A muffled chuckle warned her that Tracer knew exactly what she was thinking, had felt it in the scrape of nails against her scalp.

Rather than pull the underwear off Tracer tugged it to the side, mouth sending a delicious hum into Widow’s sex at the first unadulterated taste. Heat engulfed the muscles of her backside, palming the soft curves and squeezing tight until Widow’s hips lifted off the seat, matching the rhythm of the tongue laving up and down to collect every drop of arousal. Decades of ballet confessed itself in the impossible arch of her spine, only the back of her head still touching leather as her core flexed and trembled to push closer.

Both hands were buried in Tracer’s hair, silently urging her lover to stop teasing. A moan threaded past Widowmaker’s lips when that torturous tongue split through soft flesh and went straight for the bundle of nerves that felt like a bullseye. It could be a hundred touches and not a single one would miss.

_Précision parfaite._

Widow’s mouth parted into a smile, past caring about the sound of weakness in her ragged breath and the patois of encouragement and demands spilling free. Tracer’s lips closed around the throbbing bud, making her feel the pulse of her own heartbeat resonate up every nerve and sinew. Without warning the knot in her belly tore apart, unraveling in all directions until the flood of tension and euphoria spent itself and left her limp against the seat.

Overworked nerves twitched and fired randomly, like electricity sparking off damaged circuits. Toes and fingers curled, muscles spontaneously trembling and going still, annoying shudders in her ribs that made it hard to steady her breath. Tracer was used to all of it and ran soothing warmth anywhere her hands could touch skin. The perky hero stayed between Widow’s thighs, occasional contented hums and muffled sighs accompanying the thorough patience of her tongue lapping up any mess.

When the aftershocks and sated lethargy bled out of her, Widowmaker relented to open her eyes. La Merde certainly must have enjoyed that. A scathing comment was already forming on her tongue before her gaze adjusted to the dim interior and she realized he was slumped over on his bench. Instinctively she checked both her hands, confirming that there were no weapons. She couldn’t have actually _thought_ him dead, could she? It would make the rest of her career far simpler.

Noticing the sudden tension Tracer straightened up, casting a worried glance over the assassin before turning to follow her gaze.

“Blimey, what happened to him?” The shocked Brit twisted on the floor and crept over to prod at the inert body. No response. She pressed her fingers into his neck and nodded to herself, confirming a heartbeat and then looked back to Widowmaker with a shrug. She slid back onto the bench, making a show of wiping the corners of her mouth as they spread into a smug grin. “Guess I’m even better at this than I thought!”

 _“_ _¿Está loca?_   _I crashed him as soon as the hack was done.”_ Sombra’s disbelief was bitter with insult. _“I don’t think his madré taught him to watch with his eyes and not his hands.”_

Widowmaker’s eyes shot back to the unconscious man. If he’d tried—even _once—_ to lay a hand on her she would’ve killed him. If he’d tried it with Tracer, she would’ve killed him slowly. But this way there’d been no interruptions. No distraction. No time-wasting, mood-killing argument about the validities of murder.

“ _Merci,_ Sombra.” Widow didn’t trust the hacker and her supposed ‘friendship.’ But for tonight she owed her that much.

 _“De nada, amiga. I erased as much as I could and he won’t reboot until morning. Have fun with tu novia.”_ The line went dead with a final click, the dull static afterwards promising that the channel had been completely severed.

“What did she say?” Tracer asked as soon as Widow pulled the com from her ear to toss away. The typical buzz of barely restrained energy confessed itself in tiny darting movements of her fingers; plucking at invisible threads, brushing the side of a still naked thigh, combing wayward strands of hair from Widowmaker’s cheek. The assassin clapped her hand firmly down on errant fingers, pinning them against her knee and forcing the hyper woman to focus.

“We have the car for the rest of the night.” Widow watched realization dawn across Tracer’s face, brightening with every passing second until she could’ve been a radiation hazard. It was enough to cause a spark beneath her ribs, a foreign touch of warmth from within. Widowmaker fled the discomfort by threading her fingers into the necklaces around Tracer’s throat, indulging in a new sense of control. She pulled the pilot to her, pausing just beyond the edge of a kiss to see those expressive eyes pooling black.

“Tell me, cherié, where would you like to go?”

 


	2. Animé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original plans for this chapter have been slightly disrupted by my stupid travel schedule. So, instead of putting all of the Tracer/Widowmaker goodness in one LOOOOONG chapter, it'll be two reasonably shorter ones.

_"Tell me, cherié, where would you like to go?"_

_“This would be where I say ‘ my place or yours, ’ right? ” Tracer waggled one eyebrow to emphasize the cheesy line. She really would have loved to say that, just for the fun of seeing the look Widowmaker always gave her when she was cheeky. The one that tried to be annoyed but got a bit softer every time. Unfortunately, that wasn’t happening tonight. Tracer sighed, “ I don’t think my place is fit for company.”_

_It wasn’t like Widow was going to care that there were dishes in the sink or the like. They’d rolled around on the floors of rat-infested warehouses and the rusted metal of fire escapes. But Tracer couldn’t quite make peace with the idea of getting this woman between sheets she’d spilled curry chips on last night and had yet to put through the wash._

All of which led to them being here, in the kind of hotel that sold pictures of itself on postcards in the gift shop. It reeked of old money and new power; or maybe vice-versa. Widowmaker was getting a room and Tracer poked around the lobby, wondering if anyone would notice her taking a couple quick snapshots. She’d need some proof if she was ever going to make Winston believe she’d been to a place this fancy. A sudden lurch inside her ribs stopped that train of thought, sharply reminding her why that was a terrible idea and couldn’t happen. This wasn’t a story she’d ever be telling. This . . . _whatever_ this was with Talon’s favorite assassin would never be something she could share.

That sobering thought should’ve made her sad. Tracer strolled back over to the counter and slid in beside Widowmaker. Maybe at another time in her life it would’ve. An arm snaked around Tracer’s waist like it had been waiting for her to be there all along and she happily leaned against the taller woman. Tracer had long since decided that her world could be divided into two categories: ‘The Whole Bloody Universe’ and ‘Just Widow.’ It was this one small thing that she kept entirely for herself. Because she had to, obviously, but also—Tracer smiled at the sensation of fingers toying impatiently with the hem of her shirt—because in a small way it made Widow hers. Selfish, perhaps, but in a life where everyone thought they knew everything about her, it was glorious to have just one private piece of herself.

Figures it’d be the piece she hands off to a sexy, cold-blooded, killing machine. And a Frenchie to boot.

“ _Ça va_ _?_ ” As if sensing the drift of her thoughts Widowmaker’s voice turned toward her, luring her back. Tracer didn’t have to know the words to understand the question.

“Perfect.”She shifted just enough in Widow’s arm to shoot her a quick wink, earning a smile of approval from the sniper. It made her heart skip a beat, remembering how often she’d seen that same expression with throaty murmurs of praise rasping past dark lips.

“Two keys, madam?” The check-in attendant cleared his throat none too tactfully. Tracer blinked, realizing she hadn’t even noticed the fellow until now. Looked a bit like a constipated penguin.

“One.” Widow corrected him with an air of certainty that made Tracer feel shivery on the insides again.

Just like the assassin to cram so much meaning into a single word. Two keys were standard in any hotel. Hell, even if it was only one person staying they always gave you two because management assumed people were daft gits bound to lose one. In a single syllable Widowmaker had confidently guaranteed they wouldn’t be separating tonight, let alone leaving the room. Tracer bit the inside of her cheek, locking every muscle in her body until she could trust herself not to do anything so ridiculous as swoon.

“Here you are.” Now the constipated penguin also looked like he wanted to peck Tracer’s eyes out. Ever enthusiastic about maintaining the joy and camaraderie of all mankind she was about to ask if she could help him with whatever had crawled up his arse and died, but Widowmaker guided her away to the lifts.

The elevator was just as fancy as the rest of the hotel, the entire back wall a huge mirror. Thus it was that Tracer got a good look at herself for the first time in at least two hours. It was . . . not the sort of thing she expected. Or had ever seen before.

The product put in her hair at the beginning of the evening had amplified the effect of Widow’s fingers raking through it in the throes of passion. Crazed tufts and spikes stood out in a chaos of disarray; a loud confession of repeated, urgent fondling. The pale skin of her jaw, neck and throat sported splashes of color ranging from lipstick crimson to bruising purple, varying shades of an undeniable claim.

“No wonder he was giving me a funny eye!” Tracer explored the sensitive marks on her throat, finding Widow’s gaze in the mirror and hoping the reflection could capture her bemused accusation. “You starting to get off on this audience thing?”

“ _Non_ _._ ” Widowmaker held her eyes through the mirror as she stepped in close behind Tracer, circling arms around her once more. It had to be the effect of the lift starting to rise that made her stomach and heart switch places for a beat. Not that smoldering look or the French accent suddenly dropping an octave as Widow kissed her cheek, “But part of the pleasure of winning is showing off the trophy from time to time.”

Right, that was egotistical and possessive and not even entirely accurate. It was also damned hot and Tracer twisted to try to catch Widow’s mouth. The assassin’s hands held her firmly in place, forcing her to stay facing the mirror. Those golden eyes never broke contact in the reflection, not even when teeth caught the tender edge of her ear and Tracer could see the sinful shape of Widowmaker’s lips curving up into a smile.

Chills chased after fingers sliding under her shirt. One hand fanning over the flat of her stomach made the muscles beneath jump and quiver. The other trailed along Tracer's plunging collar, fingernails barely brushing her skin down one side and then back up the other, as maddening as the lips nibbling at her ear. Tracer opened her mouth to protest—shite, to beg—but her tongue was lead, trapping the words in her throat and all she managed was a staccato burst of need. _Bugger,_ that sounded like getting punched in the gut, not felt up by a gorgeous woman! Tracer's cheeks and ears burned in embarrassment, sinking her teeth tightly into her lower lip to trap anymore of those noises.

She may not have liked the sound, but Widowmaker almost certainly did. The gold of her eyes was nothing but a rim around deep black, desire's own eclipse. The hand teasing at Tracer's collar swiftly delved in, icicles molding to the shape of her breast and turning the tender peak into an instant, aching rock. Caresses alternated between tender and possessive, echoing the play of Widow's mouth inscribing glacial designs down the side of her neck. Tracer let her forehead fall forward against the mirror, the steam of her breath fogging the glass and making the moment look as surreal as it felt.

An exploratory touch slid past the waist of her trousers, wiggling into the snug fit until Widow's fingers grazed the sodden mess between her thighs and Tracer swore her body went off like a chime. An honest-to-god, congratulations, mate, that's the giant teddy bear for you, prize bell.

It was the lift door opening.

A long string of curses formulated in Tracer's head but she couldn't do more than groan softly at the loss of Widow's hands. She leaned back against the taller woman, stubbornly clinging to the contact they still had and trying to just ignore the shuffling footsteps that stepped onto the elevator behind them. So long as her eyes were closed she didn't have to think about what the newcomers were seeing, or how they might be reacting to the intimate moment they'd so clearly interrupted, thank you very much. For a few lurching heartbeats—as the lift resumed its journey—Tracer waited to hear scandalized whispers or plain old giggling.

The only laughter was a soft flutter of breath from Widow's lips before her mouth returned to teasing Tracer's neck. The fingernails that raked over her stomach were even more forceful this time, absolutely no apology in the brazen touches that slid directly under her bra to palm both breasts. Shock and warning collided on her tongue into an impotent squeak of protest. Tracer's eyes flew open and she found herself staring at a mirror image of her own face. Literally, yes, but also figuratively. In the reflection she could see a young couple pressed up against the other wall of the lift, so deep in a kiss they should've been kitted with diving gear. What she could see of the girl's face was absolute, intoxicated bliss.

Clearly, no one was going to be minding anyone else here. Widowmaker took that permission for all it was worth. Teeth caught hold of Tracer's shirt collar and dragged it aside, making her necklaces bounce and jingle, and she wasn't quite quick enough to hold back a moan when that diabolical mouth claimed untouched skin. 

In the mirror Tracer spotted a flash of color. Her anonymous partner in crime had managed to wrest her eyes open, lidded and lustful. There was a sparkle in them when her gaze met Tracer's, the bright dance of amusement. They watched each other for a long second, enfolded in their own individual slice of heaven, the irony of the shared moment forging a silent bond. Then fingers pinched tight on each breast and Tracer's eyes snapped shut, the arc of pleasure shooting right between her legs and driving her ass to grind back against Widow. A rush of selfish glee did victory dances in her head at the sniper's excited breath hissing into her ear, lithe hips instinctively rocking forward in answer.

The lift dinged again. More people getting on or off? Because it was already a bit crowded with people getting off. The silly joke was beyond bad but in that moment Tracer wanted to say it out loud, to share the light-headed, nonsensical feeling bubbling in her chest. She wasn't going to get a chance. Widowmaker was already moving away and pulling her to follow. They were out the door before Tracer processed the glowing number overhead; their floor.

Their floor. Their room.

She'd nearly forgotten about all of that, perfectly ready to get shagged up against the wall of the lift. Wouldn't be the weirdest place for them, and cleaner than most. In fact—Tracer felt her head buzzing with new surprises—this would be the first time there'd be a bed involved. The foreign idea took her entire brain by storm. An actual bed? A room with lights and a locking door and windows that weren't going to shatter at any moment in a hail of bullets? Pillows and sheets; no chance of her knees or back getting those awkward bruises and scrapes that she could never explain to Mercy! A real bed that they could rest in afterwards instead of hurrying to reassemble clothing and weaponry before their teams noticed them missing. They could even . . . maybe . . . sleep?

"You're smiling." Widow cast her a suspicious glance. The delicate lift of one eyebrow turned her statement into a question, the rest of her face still a perfect mask. Perfect everything.

It was unfair really. Here Tracer knew she looked like she'd been ravished by a pack of vampires and was spoiling for another round, while not a single hair was out of place on the woman who'd actually gotten off. She didn't even have smeared lipstick. _Probably cause she left it all on my bleedin' neck._ Widow's calm and composure was absolutely pristine. Except for the fact that she swiped the key card wrong. Twice.

"Just thinking," Tracer shrugged, gliding one hand appreciatively down the clingy material of Widow's dress. A quick dart of movement and she stole the key from Widow's distracted fingers, turning it around to swipe correctly. "I'm wondering how you take your coffee in the morning."

Cheeky, no doubt, but safer than the fragile sentiment that so often threatened to spill out when she wasn't careful. Widow's response was a note of laughter. The same sort of lilting amusement that had graced the air on the night she killed Mondatta. Back then it had made Tracer confused and furious, sounding so much like pity and mocking her impotence.

 "Such a sweet, foolish girl." The familiar words still gave her chills, but for a completely different reason as they brushed her cheek now. Now that velvety purr yanked on tension in her nerves, tightening the knot in the pit of her belly. The dulcet, teasing sound hinted at secrets and mysteries she couldn't guess; promised to expertly unravel each one even as she spun the web holding Tracer in her grip.

In a sudden, fluid movement that made Tracer's pulse spike, Widowmaker opened the room and grabbed her collar in both hands. Less than the blink of an eye and she'd been snatched inside, pinned flat against the door by the sniper's slender strength. For a split second their eyes held each other and Tracer thought she saw a glimmer of something different. Something beneath all the usual predatory, I'm-going-to-ruin-you lust, pride and hunger that had been there for months before either of them thought to act on it. Something that echoed the quiet, accented murmur of "Black," right before their lips met and Widow stole every possible question and word from her mouth.

Even though Tracer knew that for once they had the luxury of time, there'd clearly been some miscommunication because her body didn't get the message. She was wound up tight as a spring; should've been humming all over from the constant vibration of her nerves threatening to shake her to pieces beneath Widow's touch. The warmth pooling between her legs was making everything sticky and one toned thigh had slid in to press against the seam of her pants, igniting a fresh, damp surge of heat. Each deliberate roll of the sniper's hips hit the exact spot that kept resetting Tracer's brain, making it impossible to think about anything other than getting more.

When it came to Widowmaker she had a hair trigger. How could she not? When they were together there was never any time to waste (a fact the assassin often deliberately ignored while teasing her to absolute oblivion). It was a race; not against each other but the rest of their teams, desperate to seize what they could before the explosions ended. At this point Tracer was pretty sure that the wiring between her brain and libido went straight from Widow to Oh, fuck yes.

With a rare burst of concentration she managed to focus her attention long enough to push off the door. Not that uprights weren’t all fine and dandy but she was already too damn close and she wanted— _needed_ —to feel more of Widow. The assassin willingly gave ground, an uncharacteristic surrender.

Shoes were shuffled or kicked off in every direction and Tracer's satchel hit the floor with an unceremonious thump. They were halfway across the room by the time her shaking fingers found the zipper on the back of Widow's dress. How was it possible that a bloody cocktail number was harder to get off than all that latex?! Tracer cursed and gripped the material, dangerously tempted to yank until something tore. (Even though it would likely be her own fingers that ripped off – brute power was hardly her forte). Widow deftly reached back and undid the dress, letting fabric fall into Tracer's hands.

“Thanks, love.” Her giggle was silly, high on the relief of finally getting a grip on bare skin. 

“ _De rien_ _._ ” Widowmaker punctuated her reply with a violent tug and Tracer heard as much as felt the buttons all the way down her shirt rip free. She felt another giddy laugh bubbling up in her throat. Well, at least _one_ of them could do that sort of thing.

Widow’s dress had pooled at her waist, exposing a beautiful expanse of skin that soothed the raw sting of Tracer’s lips as she trailed kisses ever lower. A scrape of nails through hair made her moan into a mouthful of flesh, willingly moving to lave attention wherever Widow wanted it. The answering wisps of French made her entire body give a pleasant shudder, tingling as though the murmured words were each a caress. Widowmaker balled a fist in the orange fabric of her shirt to drag it away, cursing beneath her breath when she found it resisting on Tracer’s arms. The material had gone as far as it could—caught in the crook of her elbows.

“ _Laisse-moi._ Let go, petite.” The command hardly needed translation, but it was cute she thought that would make any difference.

Tracer refused. Now that she’d gotten her hands on Widowaker’s body she bloody well wasn’t letting go. She said as much, but without taking her mouth off the other woman’s breast; so all that came out was a muffled series of stubborn noises. The point was emphasized by an even tighter grip on Widow’s waist and backside, and punctuated with a nip of teeth against an already painfully-hard nipple. 

Widowmaker’s gasp slid into a breathy purr of laughter, body curving to offer even more of herself for Tracer’s demand. The fingers in her hair loosened to gently cradle the back of her head, one lone nail tracing the tender shell of her ear.

“Have it your way, cherié.” Such a sweet, generous surrender in that smoky, rich voice made the hairs on the back of Tracer’s neck stand on end.

She sensed the threat but not in time. Ice clenched on her hip and shoulder, the sudden twist bringing her flat to the ground so hard it stole the wind from her lungs. Or maybe that was the sensation of Widow’s entire body pinning her to the floor, soaking up fire and leaving chills everywhere she touched.

Strong muscles shifted and flexed beneath Tracer’s hands, making a flash of smug pride dance through her head. Even with that kind of bollocks move she hadn’t lost her grip. Then a slow, heavy drag of pressure slid between her thighs and hanging on meant a lot more than just her fingers. Widowmaker’s hips rolled again, building on the friction that made her entire throbbing sex ache. A burning flush reddened her face, her heart and blood pressure making all sorts of imitation sky rocket roars and crashes that promised she was going to lose it right here on the carpet with her pants still on. 

Dry humping on the floor like a horny teenager. Tracer would’ve laughed if her lungs weren’t completely devoted to capturing bursts of breath between increasingly needy whines. She was with the sexiest, most elegant and refined woman she’d ever met in her life and they reduced each other to this. Another bloom of heat swelled from her chest right up to her cheeks, like the rush of winning but better. She struggled to open her eyes, fixing on Widow’s face so near her own and luring her lips close enough to trade kisses. Definitely better. 

Tracer could feel the carpet chafing her shoulders and arms as she arched up into the delicious press of Widow's hips. Urgency shattered any pretense of rhythm or control, driven by pure, animal need. Widow's dress climbed high on her thighs and Tracer grabbed at whatever she could, clinging to the beautiful feel of the body entangled with her own. It was impossible to concentrate past her fracturing senses; the smell of expensive perfume, the taste of wine on her tongue mingled with salt, two breaths without voice mingling French whispers and hisses of air. Kisses grew messy, then fumbled, losing Widow's lips completely. Tracer buried her face against the coolness of Widowmaker's neck, muffling her whimpers.

Hands and skin and mouth dragged ice and goosebumps everywhere their bodies touched without barrier. Cold, so much cold. But never enough to extinguish the smoldering fire; only taunting it to burn higher, to give chase and lick along every seamless point of flesh meeting flesh and devour them both. She dug her fingers tight into Widowmaker, gouging tiny crescents that made the sniper gasp. Tracer's head snapped back hard against the floor when that final spark hit the powder keg and ignited her entire body. For that sweet, brief eternity the heat consumed everything, even Widow; there was nothing left but the two of them, melted into one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick thank you to everyone who's been giving comments and kudos! I got a really warm welcome to the fandom and I appreciate it wholeheartedly. 
> 
> Assuming all goes well, I'll get the 3rd and final part of the story finished by the end of next week.
> 
> As always, I welcome all forms of feedback, reviews, corrections, criticisms etc.  
> (And by 'welcome' I mean: get ridiculously excited to the point of nearly peeing my stupid self)


	3. Intimité

Widowmaker cradled Tracer close as she trembled through the aftershocks. Words spilled from dark lips, whispers in their unique language of threats and praise while she savored the feel of taut steel quivering and melting in her arms. Every nuance of the pilot’s face awash in naked bliss seared itself into her memory.

Tracer had no mask. No pretensions or affectations, only the sort of fervent sincerity that was nearly embarrassing to witness. She was completely open, offering every thought and emotion without shame or apology. And she wore pleasure beautifully. Raw passion inscribed itself across her features, innocence giving way to the transcendental. The face of heroes, the fall of saints.

The sight awoke impulses in Widowmaker. The kind that were long-dormant, buried or forgotten until moments like this. Dangerous tendrils crept through her mind, tightened her grip, made the sepulchral beat under her ribs stutter and ache. Her eyes swept Tracer’s face, watching the way those pouting, kiss-bruised lips curled up into a breathless and unabashed grin. The pit in her stomach twisted on itself, reaching up and grabbing her heart in a vise. Her mouth filled with the familiar, coppery tang of greed.

Once could never be enough. One release, one night, one lifetime. Tracer ignited the worst, most base and selfish desires in her. Widow wanted to keep her like this forever, freeze her under glass, hold her until neither of them could breathe, destroy every inch of her so that no one else could ever see her like this. No one else would feel the warmth of her ragged breath, the swelling rise and fall of her chest, the tiny vibrations that promised to come together into a ghost of laughter when her throat finally cleared.

Fingers that never shook on a trigger had a slight tremor when she brushed Tracer’s cheek, scolding herself for such foolishly sentimental thoughts. Thick lashes fluttered at the gentle caress, a glimpse of bottomless eyes appearing and vanishing in lazy blinks. That was Widow’s cue. With practiced ease she folded away all the troublesome thoughts and desires, tucking them back into a part of her mind no one could reach. Such musings became her own priceless treasures; to be taken out and brushed off and examined like stolen jewels, away from prying eyes and confusing questions.

By the time Tracer could focus on her there was nothing left to see. Widowmaker tilted an eyebrow down at the cocky Brit, patient amusement settling in one corner of her lips. With a dramatic flourish she tore the bright orange shirt the rest of the way off unresisting arms and flung it across the room.

“Much better.” Widow basked in smug victory, straightening up to survey Tracer’s bare torso with the same satisfaction that usually came from lining up a perfect shot. She couldn’t remember specifically when the black brassiere had been undone and shoved aside, but was silently grateful the woman’s abominable fashion sense chose front clasp. So much more convenient than the sports style she insisted on wearing for missions.

“Right, love, guess you won that round.” Tracer yielded her defeat with a grin that announced quite loudly she couldn’t care less. After all, she got the prize.

Instead of replying Widowmaker rose from the floor, ignoring the small, mournful sound that came from beneath her and the echo in her chest. Her dress, unfastened at the top and bunched up from below, had become nothing but a bulky, expensive waistband. She strolled towards the bed, hooking her thumbs in the edges of the material. A look over her shoulder confirmed that Tracer's wide, starved-puppy eyes were following every move. Poor thing was up on her elbows and turning a lovely shade of pink holding her breath. The clinging material dragged slowly down over the curve of Widow's hips, cascading to the floor with a rustling sigh.

She took her time turning around, loosing her hair from its ties to fall free and savoring the breathless curse that punctuated the air. Tracer gazed up at her, one soft coral lip pinned between her teeth, momentarily paralyzed at the sight being offered. A fleeting crease marred her brow, a single dart of emotion that furrowed smooth skin; too quick for Widowmaker to identify.

"Worn out, cherié?" The bedspread was silky smooth, easy to slide across and Widow settled herself in the center of the king-size mattress, one arm resting on her bent knee to better observe Tracer springing off the floor like she'd been pinched.

"Not half!" The brunette mocked horror at the accusation, making swift work of her lower garments. "But I'll let you catch your breath if you need, love. Wouldn't want to push you too hard, older woman and all."

" _Chose effrontée_ ," Widowmaker scolded as best she could. It was difficult to force disapproval into her voice when the nimble pilot was prowling onto the bed, climbing up her body close enough to feel the ambient warmth of her skin and the kiss of metal where one dangling necklace trailed ever higher.

"No clue what you just said," Tracer admitted, apparently proud of her ignorance. She pressed a kiss to the valley between Widow's breasts, lingering for a few extra seconds until the heat of her breath made the assassin want to squirm. "But I love hearing you say it."

Despite everything—their naked bodies slowly coming closer and beginning to tangle, the smell of sex already warming the air, the tension and pressure of grasping at fleeting pleasures, the silent promises and unspoken truths that couldn't be shared—Widow laughed. The rich, full-throated sound felt like champagne and velvet on her tongue, like firing blindly into the sky. Only Tracer could make her laugh like that, forget everything else and simply marvel at the innocent, ridiculous, _perfect_ feeling of this woman in her arms.

"Cheeky thing," Widowmaker repeated in English this time, without trying to fight the fondness that crept into her smile. One hand gently cupped Tracer's jaw and lured her close enough to kiss, hovering just beyond touch to whisper, "Cheeky and foolish. Loving what you do not know."

Tracer’s breath hitched against her lips and then suddenly drew away. The sun-soaked warmth of her body pulled back, rising out of Widow’s grasp. A bolt of shock suspiciously close to panic tensed her muscles, reaching out to catch Tracer before she could get away.  A pale hand caught hers in midair, thumb brushing a silent reassurance over her knuckles. The petite agent settled back on her knees, resting atop Widowmaker and making no secret of studying the woman pinned beneath her hips.

That dart of unusual thought was back, creating lines around Tracer’s eyes as she wrestled with something inside. Regret? Frustration? Doubt? Widowmaker couldn’t identify the precise flavor of discontent marring that lovely face. An impossible emotion wrenched inside her, twisted her tongue to shape some protest or apology without knowing why. Before she could speak Tracer’s sigh broke the interminable silence.

“It can’t be makeup or it would be everywhere by now,” the pilot observed, turning Widow’s fingers back and forth in her hand, stretching her palm out like she could read the future in it. “So what’s it then, some kind of new camo?”

It took the space of a slow heartbeat to realize Tracer was talking about the color of her skin. Another beat to control the sudden rush of relief that threatened to escape her in a confessing breath. Even with her nerves still humming like the threads of a plucked web, Widowmaker felt a smile creep back across her lips.

“Sombra’s invention. A variation of her camouflage tech.” One long finger tapped near the bracelet on her wrist, the delicate silver filigree far more refined than the hacker’s usual taste. Tracer zeroed in on the accessory, almost reaching to touch it but stopping short; that line between her brows was still unreadable. Unhappy. That was all Widow could see for sure.

“So you can take it off then? Like right now, please?”  Tracer’s voice was too weak for a demand, too forceful to be begging. Her eyes were pleading for her, and her grip on Widow’s fingers refused to be denied.

“Is it not attractive? Most people seem to prefer this appearance.”  Widowmaker feigned innocent confusion, laying back and stretching one arm overhead for maximum effect.

“I don’t.” Tracer’s flat response caught her completely by surprise, shattering any strategy. If she’d had her visor on she didn’t doubt that the pilot’s heartrate would be slowing by the second, temperature dropping as if the fire inside her were fading. A burst of irritation spiked Widow’s pulse, made her skin feel tight and the words on her tongue chafing.

“Too much a reminder of the past, cherié?” The taunt was aimed with precision, right for the heart. She knew that wearing this skin turned her into a ghost. Even Reaper treated her differently when she masked herself with the past, as if he expected Gérard to appear next. Usually it only amused her, the idea that her former life still cast such long shadows. But to find they’d crept in here left a bitter venom on her words, “Amélie Lacroix: Overwatch’s failure.”

“Yeah, forgive me, love, but bugger Amélie.” For a second time Tracer’s reply snapped Widowmaker’s thoughts to a different direction so fast that there should’ve been whiplash.

The mattress shifted beneath them, springs singing as Tracer leaned down to rest along the length of Widow’s body. She held herself up on one elbow, her other hand tangling with cool fingers as naturally as sliding through water. The creases and furrows had vanished from her face, smile coy with a playful optimism that had become the Tracer brand.

“I never met her,” Tracer clarified, the beginnings of a lopsided smile tugging at her lips. “I’m sure she was nice and all. But I’ve got my hands full at the moment. Sort of caught up with this deadly, gorgeous woman what kicks my ass six ways from Sunday then kisses me all better.”

“Only six?” Widowmaker didn’t trust herself to say anything beyond that teasing jibe. There was a sense of gravitas in the slowly unraveling moment, the feeling that something important was about to change the rules. They’d skirted the cusp of these conversations before, eluding words in touches, firefights or the occasional, conveniently timed explosion.

“Thing is,” Tracer paused, tongue darting nervously across her lips. Widow could feel the fingers wrapped in her own tighten and flex, just like the Brit always did before leaping into the fray. “I met _you._ And I know you. That’s who I want here. Bollixed up as all this is, it works. You and me. That’s what I want.”

For a language that had given birth to some of the most brilliant and moving romantic poetry in the world, Tracer’s confession wasn’t exactly epic. It was barely coherent. But what her fumbling words couldn’t quite capture, her fragile tone and hopeful eyes expressed with unrivaled eloquence.

Widowmaker knew that when the time came she could undoubtedly wax poetic in two different tongues beautifully enough to leave any audience in tears. For now, however, nothing seemed appropriate. Without a word she reached up and flicked the invisible switch on her bracelet, letting the camouflage color bleed away and reveal the cyanotic tone beneath.

“There you are!” Tracer beamed, all traces of seriousness erased by naked delight. “Evening, love.”

“ _Bon soir,_ cherié.” No other reply was needed. The purred greeting was an easy acknowledgment of everything that had been said and not said, tension vanishing like a mist as she drew the other woman close again.

The heat of Tracer’s lips against her own reminded Widowmaker of hot springs. That first caress, the sensation of barely dipping into the water and hissing at the sting that was right on the edge of unbearable. Then lazily stroking back and forth, blood heating and rushing in her veins as she grew accustomed to the scalding, addictive softness that drew her in. Tracer’s mouth opened, just enough for a rush of fire to fill Widow’s lungs before flooding her completely, plunging headlong into depths that turned every breath into steam.

The slippery warmth of lips and tongue echoed the moist heat Widow felt pressed tight below her navel. Arousal painted over taut muscle with each roll of narrow hips, Tracer’s soaked core melting down her thighs and onto frigid skin. Widowmaker deftly snaked a hand between their bodies, long fingers parting wet folds and groaning at the molten heat that welcomed her touch. It was the first time tonight she’d felt Tracer in all her glory; plush, sodden and positively scorching against her fingertips.

“Isn’t it, oh, _shite._ ” Tracer pulled back from their kiss, her argument lost in a gasp when Widow’s thumb brushed the ache of her clit. Messy, sweat-damp hair tickled Widowmaker’s cheek, Tracer burying her face against her shoulder to catch her breath. “I-it’s supposed to be your turn.”

“ _Aprés ça, ma petite_.  Soon.” Widow didn’t recognize the sound of her voice, only the predatory thrill that flooded her veins at the feel of Tracer’s throaty keen of surrender.

Later. They had all night. Right now greed knew only the desire to feel Tracer succumb to her touch again, to watch her shatter in ecstasy with Widowmaker’s name on her tongue. That mattered more than any scorecard, more than her own body’s whispering needs.

Tracer's hand untangled from her, scrabbling for purchase on the rumpled bedsheets as she bucked against Widow, trying to force the teasing fingers to slip inside.  Her skin tasted like salt and copper where Widowmaker pressed her lips to a thundering pulse, capturing one long note of tortured pleasure for her collection before surging up. The agility that had won countless battles landed Tracer flat on the mattress, her gasp nearly a squeak when it fell from startled lips. Huge brown eyes gazed up at her, dark as sin but flecked with starlight.

"Bleeding hell, I knew we should've gone to my place," Tracer huffed, words fleeing in a frustrated moan as her arching hips still couldn't force Widow to give her what she needed. Velvety flesh shuddered and clenched at the brush of fingers, all but weeping for more. In all honesty, Widow was barely paying attention to what Tracer said, far too enthralled with the way her supple body rose and fell to the slightest touch. A mournful sigh plucked at her ears, catching her attention just in time to catch Tracer's petulant whine, "Toy's even the same color 's you."

"Is it, now?" Widowmaker felt a skip beneath her ribs, the way her pulse always quickened when new and dangerous ideas crept forward. Tracer's face was already flushed pink from their activities, but she was certain there was a deeper hue creeping up the pilot's cheeks. "And when did you get this 'toy?'"

Another quintessentially English fallacy, the idea of calling sexual accessories such childish names. As though bedroom games could ever be equated to playground sports or recess diversions. Absolving themselves of adult desire by hiding it behind juvenile terms. Regardless of the name, Widowmaker found herself deeply intrigued by the accidental confession.

"While back," Tracer muttered, low and quick as though she could slip past the question the same way she evaded attacks.

"When?" Widowmaker repeated, fingers deftly sliding to find the very base of that twitching bundle of nerves and giving a swift pinch.

" _Fuck!_ Three months, bloody god almighty you evil--!" The rest of the curse was swallowed in a kiss, Tracer's heated tirade rapidly fading beneath Widow's gently circling touch.

Three months. Widowmaker fought to keep her lips from curling into a smile, focusing on the small puffs of air and tight hands clawing at her shoulder and hip. Three months ago was that burnt out studio in Hollywood, six stories up in the scaffolding of an abandoned set. Tracer quivered and clenched in her arms, an inferno of graceful rhythms and disjointed need. Widow hummed into another greedy kiss, warming as much from the moment as the memory. That had been the first time they'd had the luxury of being entirely naked, coupling together and feeling pleasure as one.

"Is that what you want, cherié?" She pulled back from Tracer's lips to press her mark, dark and hungry over skin. The image spun in her mind, joining their bodies together  and getting lost in the primal rhythm.  "Do you want me to fuck you?"

"God _yes,_ " Tracer's choked answer was a barely concealed sob, a triumphant sound of relief as two long fingers plunged deep inside.

Much as that sensual fantasy stole her breath, Widowmaker felt her entire body throb at the thought of Tracer home these past months. Alone in bed, taking pleasure from imagining _her_ , an empty room echoing with cries of her name.

"You want me to fill you?" Widowmaker didn't wait for a reply, adding a third finger to her thrusts. She didn't have to hear an answer, could feel it in the way the soaking muscles tightened and fluttered, hungry to pull even more of her in.

"Fuck yes, love, please." Tracer was never shy with words. Praising, cursing, begging; a tumult fell from her lips between every stroke, shattering into sharp, stifled bites of sound each time Widow's fingers plunged back in. Blunt nails left stinging red marks over her back and shoulder, welts that traveled her senses as nothing more than streaks of heat, faint echoes to the bed of coals already melting her to the bone.

"Need you," Tracer's muffled demand felt as urgent as the hand fumbling between them. "Need to feel you."

Widow started to argue, to object, but the feel of fingers parting her open and gliding through dripping folds silenced everything except a delicate groan. Part of her hated losing the advantage, snarled at the distraction that threatened to ruin her moment of victory. But that warm, smooth touch knew her too well, slid so expertly— _tenderly_ —through soaked flesh and silently begged her to give in.

"Amé, Widow, love. _Widow,_ " Tracer's breathless voice latched onto the only word that mattered. Never Amélie. Never anyone other than who they'd been when they met. Her name fell like a prayer from that mouth, erasing everyone and everything except the two of them in this moment.

" _Tu m'as, ma petite. Toujours_." The passionate reply spilled from her without permission, a bloom of warmth coloring her cheeks as she felt the shape of them on her tongue. The fingers slipping through her folds honed in on the throbbing point that ached for the slightest touch, drawing rough and urgent circles that echoed Tracer's racing, stumbling pulse as she warred to drag Widowmaker with her over the edge.

Her senses were spreading farther apart with each deliberate swipe of the pilot's nimble fingers, unraveling her from herself. It would've been embarrassing, losing control so quickly, giving in with such ease. But it was Tracer. The thought repeated itself in her mind like a mantra as she caught swollen lips for another kiss, muffling the moans rising in her throat. The speed of their touches increased, the bed beneath them groaning in time with the new, more urgent rhythm. It was Tracer. The delicious taste on her tongue, the heat licking at her skin, the soft, swollen flesh that quivered and tightened each time she hooked her fingers to wring another shudder from the sinuous body beneath hers. It was—

" _Tracer_ ," the name hissed past her clenched teeth, euphoria rising like a wave through her muscles and washing away any other thought. A distant recess of her mind felt silken flesh clamp tight around her fingers, understood that the pleasured cry echoing off the walls was Tracer surrendering to bliss as well. With Widow's name on her lips, just like she'd wanted.

*****              *****              *****              *****              *****              *****

_Any argument at three in the morning is going to be surreal. Worse when the argument is taking place between two people who are naked. Much, much worse when it’s after a night of marathon sex that seems like preparation for a new Olympic event. All in all, Tracer was proud of herself for not having already burst into giggles at the ridiculousness of the whole situation._

_“I am never_ la petite cuillére. Jamais, comprendre _?” Widow’s irritably serious tone wasn’t making it any easier. Even when she was being stubborn and argumentative, that accent was sexy as hell._

_“Facts are facts, love,” Tracer patiently reasoned, biting her lower lip to try to keep a smile at bay. “Front of the body gives off more heat than the back. You go and try to be the big spoon and we’ll both freeze to death by morning.”_

_“You will freeze,” Widowmaker corrected without batting an eye. She rolled onto her back, securing half the mattress for herself with chilling authority. Logically, Tracer could take the other half and they’d both be fine, each comfortable in their unmingled temperatures. Hot-blooded and frigid, English and French; setting themselves up a new version of the No Man’s Land battlefield. Sod that._

_“Well, if spooning isn’t your style that only leaves one option,” Tracer sighed, giving Widow a few brief seconds to realize the argument wasn’t over. Before the assassin could respond, she lunged across the bed, pinning Widowmaker with the length of her body,_

_“Blanket!” The pilot announced in triumph. From her right ankle clear to her left shoulder, Widow was trapped. Tracer held her breath, silently bracing for the inevitable burst of superhuman strength that would try to throw her off. Three heartbeats and the tension didn’t change. Six, ten, fifteen and she actually felt the body beneath her softening._

_“Stubborn girl.” Widow’s melodic accent curled in her ear, tickling like the sigh that slid past her lips. A hand that should’ve been tearing her away stroked gently through her hair, petting the mussed spikes. The touch was almost as soft as the murmur she barely caught. “Have it your way, cherié.”_

The disjointed memory came back to Tracer in bits and pieces, her mind trying to fit them together around the spikes of pain that kept stabbing her bleary eyes every time she slit them open. A hotel room this fancy really should have room darkening shades. One eye finally managed to crack open, darting around the room for intel as quick as possible before returning to the refuge of darkness. Right, there _were_ shades. They just hadn’t bothered with closing them before falling—well, jumping—into bed.

Pins and needles in one arm alerted her to the position she was in. This time both eyes opened, trying to make sense of a blur of shapes and colors that gradually reconciled into Widowmaker’s face. A silly, childishly pleased grin spread across Tracer’s cheeks. She was realistic enough to know she couldn’t hold the assassin down all night, certainly not in her sleep. But she hadn’t expected to wake up like this either: facing Widow and the both of them tangled around each other like a new style of braid.

“You’re staring.” Widowmaker’s face didn’t change. There wasn’t even a hint of twitch around her eyes to announce she was awake. Yet there was an undeniably _smug_ trace of humor hiding in the corner of her lips.

“And that’s creepy,” Tracer retorted, rolling her eyes. “Serious, love. You’re beautiful and all, but really damned creepy.”

“ _Merci._ ” Widow’s morning smile was languid and warm as the sun rays inching across the room.

She stretched, giving Tracer a decadent feel of every sinuous inch of her coming to life. There was the wonderful, tensile sensation of a rubber band being pulled to its limits, then relaxing and folding back in. Widowmaker’s arms wrapped around Tracer’s shoulders, unconsciously trailing her fingertips over naked skin. She never would’ve thought it possible, this ease in the assassin’s touch; as though nothing else mattered.

“You want the shower first?” Tracer bit her tongue a second too late. Could she actually kick her own ass from this position? Might take some flexibility but worth the try. She buried her face against Widow’s collar and silently wished she could reach her accelerator and blink back to keep from ruining the mood.

“ _Non_.” There was a hint of vibration under Widow’s raspy, morning tone. It sounded suspiciously like laughter. Breath against the top of Tracer’s head tickled her hair, a brush of lips easing any tension. “But I will turn on the water. Join me when you’re ready?”

Widowmaker had already untangled their limbs and slid from the bed before Tracer’s brain got past its glitch and caught up. Sheets that had been light and cooperative all night suddenly developed a very aggressive attitude and she flung half of them to the floor in the effort of sitting up, catching only a last glimpse of Widow’s shapely backside vanishing into the bathroom.

“Right,” Tracer nodded, mostly to herself. Her lips stung like blisters where her tongue darted across the bruised skin but it didn’t stop the smile splitting her cheeks.

She bounced from the bed, wrestling in the tossed sheets for a few more seconds before earning her freedom. Plumbing in the walls hummed with the sound of the shower kicking on. A shower that was waiting for her to join Widowmaker. She fumbled with the room phone, reading three times through the myriad instructions that were scribbled all around the keypad before she deciphered which button got her room service.

“Morning!” Tracer was far too chipper for whoever was on the other end of the line but she couldn’t be bothered to give a good goddamn. This was close to being the best morning of her life and she wasn’t about to let the tosser answering her call with a voice like grated lemons ruin the mood. “Could you send up some tea and coffee please? Cream and sugar on the side.”

 _Black._ Widow’s sultry word in her ear still sent chills down her spine.  

Tracer had only just hung up the phone when a tap on the door announced someone’s arrival. A quick scan of the floor revealed absolutely nothing useful for modesty so she grabbed one of the awkwardly large bedsheets and wrapped it around herself. The excessive material tangled around her feet and made it nearly impossible to shuffle two yards to the door but she managed to get there and yank it open with a burst of triumph.

The hallway was empty. No one in sight clear from one end to the other. Just a tray outside the door. Tracer picked it up, losing the grip on her sheet and letting it fall to the floor as soon as the door was shut.

“That was bloody quick.” She frowned, studying the two pots and cups. One was clearly coffee and the other tea. And there was a creamer and caddy full of sweeteners and even a few biscuits beside their tea plates. Most distinct, however, was the large cellophane package resting beside it all. Tracer glanced to the bathroom, debating whether or not to call Widowmaker. If it was some sort of explosive it wouldn’t do any good both of them getting blown to bits.

The packaging tore easily, spilling its contents into Tracer’s waiting hand. She stared in surprise at the familiar, bright orange fabric. Her shirt. A quick survey of the room revealed her button-down, still torn and crumpled in one far corner like a scorned tissue. A perfect match to the one she held now, shaking out crisply ironed folds. A piece of paper fluttered from inside to the floor.

Tracer knelt to reach for it but deft blue fingers got there first. Widowmaker’s curiously cocked brow was divided equally between her and the mysterious note. That eyebrow only crept higher when her eyes swept over the message, a small noise of disgust breaking past her clenched teeth. Without a word, she handed the note to Tracer and turned on her heel, heading straight back to the bathroom.

_‘Amiga,_   
_For your girlfriend. We work well together, no? Do it again soon._   
_Gracias for the show.’_

Tracer stared at the words, vaguely aware that the cryptic, suggestive message didn’t bode well for their future. Then again . . . She glanced at the perfectly new shirt in her hands, the tray with fresh tea and coffee, and the bathroom pouring steam. A repeat of last night didn’t sound like all that bad an idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done!  
> As before, I'm eager to hear thoughts/comments/critiques on the characters here and interpretations since I don't want anything to feel OoC and this chapter was more emotional than the rest. Really grateful for all the feedback I've gotten so far and wanted to say it does feel like it's helped me get more of a handle on this 'ship.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea occurred to me after reading the 'Masquerade' comic. Seeing Amelie out for the evening with Doomfist presented all kinds of fun opportunities for her to use that disguise. 
> 
> This is my first attempt to do anything E-rated with this pairing, feel free to provide feedback. Also, if anyone has seen artwork of Tracer in some sexy casual-wear, please send me the link! I'd dearly love to see her in something other than that orange catsuit.


End file.
